


(Kiss me) 'Til the Morning Light

by LeapAngstily



Series: Search the Ground (for a bitter song) [3]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous misuse of goal posts, Kaká has no self-preservation skills, M/M, Monto has issues, One-sided feelings, Outdoor Sex, Trust Issues, communication problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kakà gave up a lot to be with Riccardo, and sometimes he wonders why he even bothers. But then there are the moments when Riccardo proves him wrong, reminds him why he cares, before he is left wondering once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Kiss me) 'Til the Morning Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Porpentina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porpentina/gifts).



> I promised my roommate I’d write her bottom!Kakà once she got her Bachelor’s degree. Here you go honey, congratulations on finally finishing something!
> 
> This is a sequel to [My Sweetest Downfall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1205455), but should also work as a standalone (more or less). Set on the early morning after Milan’s last game of the season.
> 
> The title comes from the Regina Spektor song _Samson_. For some reason always I end up listening to this song when I write this universe – “My Sweetest Downfall” also comes from the same lyrics.

The first light of dawn is only sneaking past the horizon when Kakà pulls into the parking lot. Milanello is empty, not even the earliest of staff yet in the perimeter. It is far too early to be here; he should be home, sleeping peacefully next to his wife.  
  
Instead, he is at the deserted training centre, following the ridiculous whims of his captain. Fuck buddy? Boyfriend? Lover? Whatever he and Riccardo are, Kakà is not sure anymore – if he ever was.  
  
Riccardo is waiting for him on one of the smaller training pitches, mostly hidden from view. Kakà finds him lying in the dewy grass next to the goal, unmoving, and for a while Kakà thinks he is asleep.  
  
Then he is close enough to see Riccardo’s open eyes, staring listlessly at the still mostly dark sky. Kakà glances up, too, takes a note of the few stars still visible. He wonders how long Riccardo has been here, if he even went home after the game last night.  
  
“You’re late,” Riccardo interrupts his thoughts, not moving from his spot, not sparing Kakà so much as a glance.  
  
“You can’t expect me to come at your every call,” Kakà replies softly, closing the distance between them, coming to stand above Riccardo. He does not want to sit in the damp grass, wet clothes the last thing he needs in the chilly morning air.  
  
“I guess not,” Riccardo’s lip twitches, a mirthless smile that does not reach his eyes as he finally shifts his gaze to Kakà, “You came anyways.”  
  
“Get up. You’re gonna freeze yourself to death, just before the World Cup too,” Kakà is offering his hand to help Riccardo up but the Italian ignores it pointedly, turning his attention back to the slowly brightening sky.  
  
“It’s weird,” Riccardo says softly just when Kakà is about to berate him again – Kakà might not be going to the World Cup, but Riccardo definitely is, and they both know he is going to regret it if he ruins it for himself – “The next time we come here, everything’s gonna be different. New coach. New teammates. New season.”  
  
Riccardo looks pensive, almost sad, a faraway look in his blue eyes. This is a side of Riccardo Kakà rarely gets to see: quietly vulnerable; no strong, uncaring façade to hide behind; no violent, uncontrollable emotions taking over.  
  
Just Riccardo.  
  
“Different isn’t always bad,” Kakà assures him, finally sitting down to the grass next to Riccardo’s prone form, the dew immediately soaking through his sweatpants, “Especially not after a season like ours.”  
  
“But people are leaving. Clarence, Marco, and who knows how many others,” Riccardo continues quietly, shifting a bit closer to Kakà instinctively, “ _You_  might leave.”  
  
“I won’t,” Kakà answers swiftly, and it is the truth as far a he knows. He is hoping against hope that it will be the truth once the transfer window closes too.  
  
“You don’t know that. Everybody leaves. Sooner or later.”  
  
Riccardo’s voice is paper thin, almost ready to crumble, and Kakà is not sure he is talking about the two of them anymore. He vaguely remembers that rumour about Pazzini and Napoli just some days ago.  
  
Kakà is not quite jealous – how could he be, when he knew what he was getting into before he decided to get involved with Riccardo – but there is that one small part of him that feels like shattering whenever he is reminded of Riccardo’s feelings for his friend.  
  
“You’re right. We don’t know,” he admits, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on Riccardo’s forehead. Riccardo does not even bat an eye, focused on the last star that is flickering out of view as the morning light chases the night away.  
  
Even after months, Kakà is still the only one initiating physical contact that is not immediately sexual in nature. Sometimes it is frustrating, others he just accepts it as the way things are: it is enough that Riccardo does not try to pull away, a thought that the casual intimacy might be as important to him as it is to Kakà, even if he does not know how to show it.  
  
“It might not be the same,” Riccardo says when Kakà sits up again, his hand left resting on the captain’s arm, “We might not be the same when we come back.”  
  
He sounds uncertain, maybe even scared, and it takes Kakà completely by surprise.  
  
“You’re talking like we’re not gonna see each other over the summer,” he lets out a soft chuckle, stroking Riccardo’s arm reassuringly, “I’m gonna be in Brazil too. It’s my home. I could even show you around while we’re there.”  
  
Riccardo scoffs and for a while he looks like he wants to pull away from Kakà’s touch – something he has not done even once after the loss against Atletico months ago – but in the end he stays put, although Kakà can feel his muscles tensing under his fingers, “ _He_ ’s gonna be there too.”  
  
 _He_. Cristiano. The love that was, is, and always will be. The love that Kakà chose to give away because he thought he had found someone who needed him more.  
  
“That’s true,” he replies simply, sliding his fingers down Riccardo’s arm until reaching his hand, entwining their fingers carefully. He wants to ask if Riccardo is jealous, but that would be a stupid question when he knows the answer already, “It’ll be nice seeing him. It’s been a while.”  
  
“Then you can show him around,” Riccardo’s sharp eyes are suddenly on Kakà, and this is a much more familiar part of Riccardo: the one that ridicules Kakà for his weaknesses and tells him he is an idiot for wanting to have anything to do with Riccardo.  
  
There is no point in reminding Riccardo that Kakà chose him over Cristiano, not when he is like this. There is no point because Riccardo knows it without telling, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Always so careful. Always on guard.  
  
“If you say so,” he sighs in defeat, letting go of Riccardo’s hand and standing up, trying in vain to brush off the dampness of his trousers.  
  
He wonders again what on earth possessed him when he decided to come here today, with barely enough sleep in his system to keep on the road while driving. One message was all it took – even Cristiano did not use to have so much power over him.  
  
He starts to walk away. Maybe he can get a good jog in before the staff starts trickling into the premises, and then he can have a prolonged breakfast with the staff and maybe some teammates before they have to leave for Casa Milan.  
  
“Wait, Ricky,” the pleading voice stops him on his tracks, and he turns to look back at Riccardo who has finally sat up, his hair damp and messy from lying in the grass for God knows how long.  
  
What really surprises him, though, is that Riccardo is using his name. Maybe it is because Riccardo feels weird using his own name with someone else, or maybe it is another way of avoiding intimacy, but this is the first time Riccardo has called him that. Not ‘hey you’, not ‘idiot’, not even just Kakà, but  _Ricky_.  
  
“Ricky,” Riccardo whispers again, like trying out the name on his tongue, and Kakà closes the distance between them with a couple of long strides, taking a hold of Riccardo’s hand and pulling him up unceremoniously.  
  
The kiss that follows is awkward – their noses bump together and Riccardo’s lips first brush only the side of Kakà’s mouth in mistake – but it does not take away the fact that it is Riccardo initiating the kiss. Finally.  _Finally._  
  
“You can’t leave,” Riccardo tells him quietly, not an order nor a plea, a mere statement, “You can’t leave, Ricky.”  
  
Kakà wants to promise him he will not, that he will stay in Milan for many years to come, but he knows he cannot make promises like that. He cannot promise anything because he  _will_  leave. Be it next season or the one after that, or some other year to come, but he will leave and he cannot take Riccardo with him.  
  
So, instead of making promises he cannot keep, he takes a hold of Riccardo’s chin and presses their lips together again, amazed when instead of the usual unresponsiveness he can feel Riccardo parting his lips under his, returning the kiss hesitantly.  
  
For that one moment, all Kakà’s sacrifices and doubts actually seem worth it.  
  
The hesitation is only momentary. Riccardo is soon gripping Kakà’s shirt with both hands, pulling the hem up, the cool air hitting his moist skin making Kakà shiver involuntarily.  
  
Riccardo’s mouth on his is almost aggressive now, dominant, teeth grazing against his bottom lip, tongue pressing against his. Kakà follows the lead easily, because this is how their relationship has always worked, even before they could talk about there being a relationship. Control until you lose control, dominate until you are dominated.  
  
They are horrible at talking, at expressing their feelings in words. It is the touches, the too-harsh actions that get the message across: message of need, of dependency.  
  
It is nothing like what Kakà had with Cristiano, and maybe that is why the feeling is so intense – so unfamiliar and not always pleasant – something Kakà has been unable to place no matter how much he tries.  
  
Kakà does not realize they are moving until Riccardo pushes him against the goal post, his hands slipping down to Kakà’s hips, stroking his buttocks through the sweatpants, rocking his erection against Kakà demandingly.  
  
“Can I—?” Riccardo releases Kakà’s mouth to voice his question, but presses his lips against Kakà’s neck before he can finish his request. His hands on Kakà’s backside remain insistent, though, pulling Kakà flush against him, and Kakà knows what he is asking for even without hearing the words.  
  
Only Cristiano has been inside him before, the ultimate question of trust, but it does not even cross Kakà’s mind to say no to Riccardo now, not after all the times he has fucked Riccardo, hard enough to draw blood, to make him cry and plead under him, just because it was the way Riccardo wanted it, needed it.  
  
“If you want to,” he gasps out his answer, grasping Riccardo’s hair, pulling on the strands to make him move away from his neck and into another kiss, even messier than the previous one, open mouths meeting in the middle, tongues tangling together before the lips actually touch.  
  
Riccardo has lube and condoms in his bag – Kakà has some too, because it is how they work, but Riccardo’s bag is closer than his car – and Kakà turns around to lean his front against the cold metal of the goal post while Riccardo fetches them.  
  
The sweatpants are only down to his thighs, limiting his movements, revealing just what is necessary. The cool wind brushes against his bare ass before Riccardo presses up against him, sharing the body heat, sheltering him from the wind.  
  
A fleeting worry of getting caught flashes through Kakà’s mind, but it disappears as soon as he can feel Riccardo’s slicked fingers tracing his entrance, rubbing the flesh before pressing one finger inside him.  
  
“Dear God,” Kakà whispers in Portuguese, but Riccardo laughs as if he could understand the words, pressing his face into Kakà’s hair and breathing in his scent as he takes his sweet time spreading the lubricant inside him, caressing his insides until the brief flashes of pain diminish into a dull ache.  
  
A second finger, more lube, more pain, but Kakà just bites his lip and waits it out, allows Riccardo to keep stretching him with more care than Kakà could ever give when preparing Riccardo.  
  
Riccardo does not ask if he is ready when he pulls his fingers out, and the sudden feeling of being filled takes Kakà by surprise even though he knows it is coming. He gasps for air as breath gets stuck in his throat, the painful pressure inside him almost too much, almost pulling him apart.  
  
Riccardo grunts almost inaudibly when he pushes fully in, his hips nestled against Kakà, and he rests his head on Kakà’s shoulder, his mouth on the juncture where neck meets the shoulder, and he waits, allows Kakà the moment he needs.  
  
He moves a bit too quick, pulling back and then thrusting in again, the shivers of pain running up Kakà’s spine. He pushes back against Riccardo nonetheless, splaying his fingers over Riccardo’s where they are resting on his hips.  
  
“Harder,” he demands quietly, leaning his head back, speaking right into Riccardo’s ear. A demand he would never have done with Cristiano, not when his lover was being so careful, fretting over the fear of hurting him. With Riccardo it is different, with Riccardo  _hurt_  is good. Hurt is what makes it real.  
  
The pain is diminishing with every thrust, each stronger than the previous. Riccardo’s hold on Kakà’s hips is tightening by the second, Kakà’s hands over his urging him on, telling him wordlessly to keep going, that it is good, it is right.  
  
It takes only moments, but at the same time it feels like an eternity as Riccardo picks up his pace, driving himself inside Kakà a few more times, and Kakà can feel him tensing up against his back, violent shivers running through his body and into Kakà’s just an instant before he moans against his neck and comes, buried inside Kakà to the hilt.  
  
“Kiss me, Riccardo,” Kakà demands when the captain halts his movements, and Riccardo does: he catches Kakà’s mouth with his own, runs his tongue against his lips slowly before pushing inside, Kakà welcoming the intrusion.  
  
Riccardo does not break the kiss when he lets go of Kakà’s hip and reaches for his abandoned erection, firm strokes pushing him closer to the edge. Kakà follows with his own hand, entwining their fingers and setting up the tempo, guiding Riccardo until he too finds his release, spilling his seed over their hands, his insides clenching around Riccardo’s softening cock still inside him.  
  
“Please don’t leave,” Riccardo whispers against his lips when they finally part for air, his arms wound around Kakà’s waist. The used condom slips off when he finally pulls out of Kakà, falling to the ground, but neither of them pays it any attention, “I don’t want things to change.”  
  
It is closest to love confession Kakà will ever get out of Riccardo, and they both know he cannot reply, he cannot promise him anything. It is not up to them.  
  
Instead, he turns around, pulling his trousers back up, then Riccardo’s, before wrapping his arms around his neck, embracing him until he can feel him relaxing in his arms.  
  
The sun is shining high above the training pitches before they finally enter the dining room, greeting the staff and their teammates as they make their way to get some breakfast. If somebody notices that Riccardo is walking just a tad bit too close to Kakà, they do not comment on it.  
  
“You’ve got grass in your hair,” Pazzini tells Riccardo when he takes a seat between him and Bonera, reaching out to sort out his messy curls gently.  
  
Riccardo glances at Kakà, almost apologetic as he leans into Pazzini’s touch, but Kakà only shrugs and walks over to Robinho who is happily stuffing himself with wholemeal corn flakes. If there is a pinch of jealousy somewhere inside him, he makes sure to hide it so deep he himself could not find it.


End file.
